Dealer's Choice
by Clara Barton
Summary: After the Great War, Trowa finds life not at all the same. A birthday fic for Amberly.
A/N: A birthday present for Amberly, who wanted some pining 2x3. And I guess a bit of an indulgence for myself, since I've been wanting to play in a Gatsby-era fic for a while now.

A/N #2: A very special thanks to The Manwell for editing this.

Warnings: angst, language, smut, AU

Pairings: 2x3

 _Dealer's Choice_

It was late and he was tired.

But then, it was always late and Trowa was always tired. He had been tired for years - couldn't remember the last time he had even slept for more than an hour before waking up, covered in sweat, the earth-shattering _thud_ of shells echoing in his ears and his dreams.

So working odd hours - living in the dark and retreating from daylight - suited him just fine. At least as well as _anything_ seemed to suit him these days, since the war.

Trowa felt like the last five years, ever since he had dropped his haversack on the stoop outside what _had_ been his sister's house when he shipped out in 1917 but, when he returned in 1920, found it now belonged to a family of eight Italians who yelled at him in a language he didn't understand, had just been one interminable nightmare.

No trace of his sister, no home - nothing to tie Trowa down to the life he had led before meant he had drifted, had spent his first night Stateside in a brothel and the second in an alley, the third in a police holding cell and it had been there that he had first met Quatre Winner.

Quatre, scion of a powerful Boston political family, determined to throw his life away, determined to pick a fight with the meanest, ugliest bastard in the holding cell that night and only Trowa's intervention had saved Quatre from a knife to his gut.

And so, Trowa's fourth night home was spent in the spare bedroom of Quatre's apartment, the fifth was spent in the passenger side of a barely functioning truck driving from Boston to upstate New York to retrieve a booze shipment from Canada with Quatre driving the truck and _regaling_ Trowa with tales of his most recent pieces of ass.

Ever since then, Trowa had worked for Quatre, picked up shipments of booze, strong armed the men who owed him money, stood silent and intimidating by his side during the numerous turf wars and picked up his damn near lifeless body and carried him to safety after one seriously botched job.

In the last two years Quatre had decided to expand his shipping business farther south and had set Trowa up as his point man in Washington D.C. The initial move had been… disconcerting. New rhythms to get used to, new people, new bed that was too damn soft.

Perhaps the most disconcerting thing, however, had been his introduction to The Mayflower Club.

Run by Treize Khushrenda, the Mayflower hosted the D.C. elite and procured their drinking, gambling and whoring delights right under the shadow of the capitol dome.

The first night, when Quatre had walked him in and taught him the code to make it past the machine gun wielding guards, he had leaned over to Trowa and given him simple, explicit instructions: look but don't touch.

And there had been a _lot_ to look at.

Girls wearing nothing but tassles, towers of overflowing champagne glasses, tables for craps and poker, opium pipes passed around like candy, D.C. society on display in all its secret hedonistic glory. Trowa was as disgusted by it all as he was aroused.

This was _not_ the life he had known before the war, and sure as hell not the life he had known in the trenches, and while he wasn't strictly _part_ of it now - he did at least get to look at it.

Even that first night, though, within the first five minutes of being in the club, Trowa had seen him - had swept the room with a gaze of practiced boredom and found himself unable to look away.

Set up at one of the side card tables, dressed in a vest and bow tie, the full sleeves of his striped dress shirt held in place with arm garters, was the most exquisite creature Trowa had ever seen.

Contrary to the fashion of the day - mens or womens - the man's hair was long, worn in a braid that snaked down his back and swayed side to side as he leaned forward to gather cards and chips while he worked as a dealer. Shaggy bangs obscured his forehead and fell into his eyes, but when he looked up, when their eyes locked across the room that first time, Trowa saw that they were violet, violet and furious and Trowa had had to look away from their searing depths.

It had taken six months to learn the dealer's name - Duo Maxwell - a full year before Trowa even had the opportunity to speak to him and even then it was just a nod, an exchange of smirks and a soft _hullo_ from Duo and a muttered _evening_ from Trowa.

Things had not progressed much from there - Trowa usually made his way straight to the back office that Treize maintained, arranged the next shipment or collected payment, refused whatever vice du jour Treize happened to be peddling, and then left. The one time they had done more than brush past each other or lock eyes across the room had been months ago, when Treize had been in a meeting and Trowa had stepped outside to get some air and smoke.

It had been July, the streets baking even in the moonlight and Trowa had long since abandoned his jacket and hardly ever bothered with a tie. He leaned against the side of the Mayflower and smoked, letting his eyes close and letting himself, for a just a moment, fall asleep.

"Got one to spare?"

Trowa had snapped awake, heart racing and stood perfectly still until he figured out where he was, until he saw Duo leaning against the wall beside him in the spill of streetlight, eyebrows arched in question and lips curved in amusement.

Trowa had fumbled for his cigarette case, a gift from Quatre two years ago, and held it out to Duo.

Duo took one and put it between his full lips before tucking another behind his ear. Trowa scraped a match against the brick wall and offered it. Duo leaned forward, lit his cigarette and drew in a deep breath before exhaling slowly, luxuriantly.

"Damn what are these?"

"French," Trowa said and took a drag from his own. Another gift from Quatre.

"Remind me to start acquiring expensive tastes," Duo muttered and Trowa chuckled at that.

Duo shook his head and wiped the back of one hand across his brow.

"I swear to God it's hotter than Satan's ass in there - figured it'd be cooler out here, but that is definitely not the case."

Trowa nodded in agreement. There was no breeze and the still night air was heavy, oppressive.

Duo turned, leaned one shoulder against the wall and looked up at Trowa.

"What's your name anyway? Didn't seem wise to start asking Treize questions about you but yanno, you're a pretty mysterious guy."

"And you're curious?"

"Maybe I'm just bored."

"Trowa Barton."

He put his cigarette between his lips and held out his hand.

"Duo Maxwell, though you probably already knew that," the shorter man added with a wry slant of his lips as they shook hands.

Trowa was about to end the shake, prepared to pull away from the tangle of warm flesh that he suddenly realized was the only contact he had had with another human being in years that wasn't a prelude to violence or an act of violence itself, when Duo gripped his hand and twisted his wrist, turning his forearm up.

Showing the track marks in the lamplight.

It had been Quatre, that first night at his apartment, who had woken Trowa up from a nightmare and given him the morphine pills. Quatre who had introduced Trowa to Dr. S, who had prescribed the heroin injections as a more _workable_ addiction.

"You don't get it from Treize," Duo said and he ran the pads of his fingers over Trowa's forearm.

Despite the heat, Trowa shivered. He wanted to withdraw his arm but found it impossible to move.

"Never shit where you eat," he said.

Duo chuckled and he released Trowa's arm and took another drag.

"Doesn't Winner feed you from a silver bowl with your name engraved on it though?" He asked, lips twisted into a sneer.

Trowa arched an eyebrow, surprised at the tone.

"Jealous that Treize doesn't bother with a silver bowl for you?"

Duo's eyes flashed and his fingers tightened on the cigarette.

"I'm no pet," he said, and Trowa couldn't decide who he was trying to convince.

"And you think I am?"

"Attack dog is still a pet, ain't it?"

Trowa snorted. He followed Quatre's lead, postured and glared and sure, he could see how the crew around here thought of him as that, but he had believed Duo to be more insightful.

"And you?" He asked.

"Me?" Duo flicked out the cigarette, not bothering to step on the smoldering end. Together they watched it sputter and die on the damp street. "I'm just the stray nosing around for scraps."

Trowa looked up at that, his gaze drawn to Duo's face by the words and the disgust in Duo's voice.

Duo wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Not a pet though."

Duo's lips thinned.

"You can keep a mongrel around for entertainment but nobody's going to take him home."

Duo pushed away from the wall and took a step away, then turned around and walked back, walked closer until his nose was only a few inches away from Trowa's chin.

"Why'd you never talk to me before?" he asked and Trowa could hear the challenge in his voice.

Trowa shrugged one shoulder.

"I like to manage my addictions - keep my bad habits to a minimum."

Duo stared at him, violet eyes searching for something. Trowa didn't know what he was looking for, didn't know if he found it, but after a moment Duo chuckled and he reached up.

Trowa flinched as the hand came near his face, giving Duo pause for a second before he rapped a knuckle against Trowa's nose in a gentle tease.

"You wish," he said and winked.

Duo turned and walked back into the club, not bothering to give Trowa a chance to respond.

Trowa stared after him, meditatively drawing on his cigarette until it was nothing but a stub.

In the weeks following Duo seemed to look through him - their eyes would meet for a second, a heartbeat and then Duo's gaze would slide past him as though Trowa were just another nobody.

And maybe he was.

The idea left Trowa with a hollow ache, a gnawing doubt that he couldn't assuage with heroin or a fist around his cock.

As the summer burned away to fall, as the days and nights sweltered and then finally broke, finally gave in to chilly evenings and then windy days, Trowa found himself starting to linger at the club after his meetings with Treize, found himself finally accepting Treize's offers of a drink, a quiet corner with a mostly naked woman, sucked on their cocaine tipped fingers and felt the world grow brittle and distant until he was numb to everything except the cold, the emptiness in Duo's eyes when he looked over at him and saw the girls on his lap night after night.

They were at a standoff, an impasse, and as the weeks slid into months of silence Trowa could feel the doubt grow into desperation. He started making mistakes - small ones, careless ones that brought him too close to death and Quatre started talking about bringing him back to Boston, started making pointed comments about the heroin, about breaking the look but don't touch rule for The Mayflower Club.

But it wasn't until Wufei Chang showed up at the club, wasn't until Trowa saw Duo flirting with the man, leaning on his poker table and tweaking his bow tie that Trowa found himself acting, found himself dragging Duo outside and shoving him against the wall.

They glared at each other, Duo's arm muscles flexing under Trowa's hands and Trowa realized, in that moment, just how strong Duo was, just how dangerous.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Duo hissed at him, eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed.

And Trowa realized he didn't know.

He had no idea what he was doing.

He had been drifting for so long, had cared so little which way the current took him, that he no longer knew where he was, no longer even knew how to swim.

Duo saw it, saw the realization and the desperation and he pushed Trowa's arms away and pulled him close, held him tightly and Trowa closed his eyes and buried his face in Duo's hair.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Duo repeated, voice low and gentle and _affectionate_.

It reminded Trowa of Cathy, his sister. Reminded him of those times before the war.

Duo let him go, his hands dropping down to lace their fingers together and Trowa continued to lean against him, to soak in his heat and his scent and his life.

"I'm leaving," Duo whispered into Trowa's shirt. "Going to San Fransisco with Wufei."

Trowa bristled and started to pull away.

"He's my fucking friend, Trowa. He saved my life and I owe him one and he - he owes me."

"Wouldn't that make you even?"

Duo snorted. "Maybe."

Trowa realized that Duo had meant to calm him, to soothe him by calling Wufei a friend - but it was more than Trowa was. So much more.

"Come with me?"

It was fragile, Duo already expecting him to say no, and Trowa felt his own breath catch at the possibility.

"Why?"

"Because I'll be there."

It was more than enough reason for Trowa. He lifted their joined hands and nudged Duo's chin up and studied him in the streetlight.

"No leashes out there," Duo murmured. "Think you can make it on your own?"

Trowa ran his thumb over Duo's lips and held his breath as the other man pressed an almost imperceptible kiss to the rough skin.

"Yeah," Trowa let himself say. "I think I can."

-o-

So it was short, it was angsty - filled with Trowa pining - but I hope you enjoyed it.


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